Cold
by tokeahontas
Summary: Peter had never been particularly warm anyway. [Peter's POV in Divergent, re-write of You're Making Me Nuts]
1. Peter

There are at least six mirrors in my house.

I stand in front of the one in the first bedroom down the second-story hall, the bedroom I call my own, and stare at my reflection.

The boy who stares back at me is tall - too tall, almost, with a strong build and long legs. He has shiny brown wet hair and equally shiny dark green eyes. His eyes turn upward and his nose is long, with a narrow bridge. His chest rises as he breathes and goes back down as he exhales. I close my eyes after that, and turn away.

It's June 1st. Tomorrow is the day of my aptitude test, wherein I will learn if I belong in Candor, Amity, Abnegation, Erudite, or Dauntless. And the day after that is Choosing Day - the day that I will decide the rest of my life.

I take off my towel and run my hand through my wet hair, shaking it to dry it off. I laid my clothes out last night. I hate them, but I have to wear them.

I hate the whole faction. I've wasted sixteen years of my life having my decisions made for me, in this corrupt faction where I don't fit in. I live for what will happen in two days. I already know where I'm choosing, but I'm just glad I have the option to choose.

I button up the white shirt and slip on the black pants, whistling as I do so.

Next to my mirror is a picture of my family from a few years ago. My older sister, Stephanie, was eleven at the time it was taken, and I was six. A pang of guilt hits my chest, but I push it away just as it comes.

I am well-trained in the art of indifference, having taught myself not to feel others' pain. I don't care about my mother and father or my sister, who stayed upon her own choosing. I don't, and won't, feel any remorse. I've spent sixteen years building a wall, and I won't let it break. Ever.

And what a good actor I am. I just wish I wasn't acting.

"Peter!" my mother calls from down the stairs.

"Coming!" I inhale again and say. I catch my own eyes in the mirror one last time and smile.

My mother, a small red-haired lady, smiles at me and touches my shoulder. I want to shove her off, because it's the honest thing to do and that's what the faction is about, right? Wrong. I don't shove her off because it would be an act of betrayal, and even in the honest faction, that isn't acceptable.

My dad nods at me from behind his newspaper in the approving Candor way and immediately I want to punch him. He's so smug. I look nothing like my father, but he tells me that his problems are my problems, that his mistakes are my mistakes. I can't stand him, never could.

The whole room smells like smoke and coffee, the trademark scent of Candor. I walk over to the table and grab a cigarette, and my father stares at me, his eyebrows low. I stare back and go for the lighter.

"That's not good for you," my mother says meekly from behind me.

"So why're you letting your husband do it?" I ask, not even turning to her as I light the cigarette.

My father lowers the newspaper and reaches out to smack my fingers, which grasp the table, but I move them away and turn on him before he can do anything about it, walking through the entryway to the front door.

"Peter," Mom calls, "you have a meeting with the counselor today."

"Okay." I grab my backpack and leave, taking a drag of the cigarette as I exit. My mom has been sending me to counselors and therapists ever since I got caught for lying when I was eight. And each one thinks I'm exceptionally charming and having a tough time because of my tense relationship with my father.

It fills me with anger just thinking about it - thinking about how my parents are always treating me, their son, like a headcase, but never even consider themselves to be anything less than stellar parents.

I walk off the property with the cigarette dangling from my mouth, one strap of my backpack on my shoulder. Every house in the Candor sector is different, and that individuality is one of the only things I like about it here.

Across the street from me, a short, red-headed boy closes the door and we walk side-by-side in the middle of the street. This is Drew, who I long to consider nothing more than a lackey, but my heart's not in it. Drew is my friend, and has been for as long as I've lived here, which is a long time. We have a third friend, Molly, but she lives on the other side of the Merciless Mart - Candor headquarters.

And down the street, another person exits their own house. A dark-skinned girl in a white shirt and a short black skirt walks in front of us. Christina.

Drew nudges me, and I call out, "BITCH!" to her. She stops briefly, but then keeps walking, lifting her head up. Drew and I laugh.

"You study for the Faction History test?" Drew asks, looking up at me. I shake my head.

"Why not?"

"Too busy studying for the exams on Math, English, Science, Law, and Technology."

"Are you nervous for the aptitude tests tomorrow?"

"Well, if I say I'm not, I'm a liar."

"And we wouldn't want that, wouldn't we, Pristine Peter?"

I shove him playfully. This is the way it should be.

* * *

Drew and I exit the bus with Molly, Christina and some other Candor trailing after us. This bus route is used almost exclusively by people from our faction.

I check my watch. It's about 7:20. Ten minutes until school starts.

Upper Levels is a large building where fourteen-, fifteen-, and sixteen-year-olds attend classes. Everyone has six hour-long classes. In ten minutes I'll walk to English, taught by an elderly lady called Mrs. Reeves. In seventy I'll walk to Faction History, taught by a younger woman named Mrs. Olivares. In one-hundred-thirty, I'll make my way to Math, whose teacher is Mr. Yang. Then comes Law, my only class taught by someone of my faction, in one-hundred-ninety. Then lunch, in two-hundred-fifty minutes. In three-hundred-ten I'll walk to Technology. I'll go to Science in three-hundred-seventy minutes, and four-hundred-twenty minutes later, I'll go home.

I hear a train horn behind me, and Drew and I speed up so we don't get pummeled by a flying Dauntless jumping from a train. The Dauntless should scare me - they are the scariest faction, the ones who believe in courage, though I fail to see what courage has to do with dying your hair a strange color - but they don't. Instead I feel drawn to them.

We enter the school building, and the school is abuzz with energy, people talking and walking - people in blue, black, white, red, and yellow. Factions commingle here, one of the few places they can. Well, all but one faction.

Abnegation. The Stiffs. Their faction believes in selflessness, which apparently means standing alone in all gray with your hands clasped and not talking to anyone.

"Look at that one," Molly whispers in my ear, pointing to a Stiff girl on the opposite side of the hall. She is small, with blond hair in a knot. "I think her name's Susan."

"Do I dare?" I ask.

Molly looks at me excitedly, and Drew returns the look. They stand by a locker as I weave through the crowd of people, making my way to this Stiff.

I walk up and stand in front of her, pausing. She looks at me for a second, and then I turn her sideways, slamming her into the locker and sending her books flying.

"I'm so sorry!" I say mockingly as she picks her books up, her face a bright red.

The hallway erupts in laughter, and a few people pat me on the back or shake my hand, mostly Erudite and Dauntless.

She stares at me. I sneer at her, and then walk back to my friends, who are laughing hysterically.

The bell sounds out, and the pace of students immediately picks up as we all rush to our first-hour classes. Molly and Drew head their separate ways, and I walk to the English room, smiling.

* * *

"You remember, of course, how to head a paper. I want your first and last name, faction, and the date, which I may remind you is June the 1st, in the year 312 Post Purity War. That is six-one-three-twelve-PPW. Yes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Reeves." we call in unison.

"I will be calling role as you begin your papers, the prompt of which you know to be the following - 'How does language help society function?' Yes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Reeves."

"Good. Now, you may begin."

When Mrs. Reeves calls out "Peter Hayes", I raise my hand to be met with some snickers and a bit of clapping.

The Erudite boy next to me, Andrew, pats my shoulder. "I saw what you did with the Stiff today. That was cool."

I nod and smile. "It was nothing."

"Is there a problem, Mr. Hayes?"

I look up from the paper. "No, Mrs. Reeves. Just pondering the importance of the brilliant language. I'd overlooked it until now, and I've spent almost all month thinking about my answer. It's wonderful, really."

She smiles. "Well, thank you, Mr. Hayes."

I turn back and the class giggles. I love this place - I love how foolish everyone is, including the teachers, and how fast word spreads, and how popular you can get just by being a schoolyard bully. I'm going to miss it.

* * *

The Candor boy next to me in Faction History, Al, is dead asleep, and so is Mrs. Olivares. Thank God for Mrs. Olivares, really, because she gave us a short, simple prompt, and she evidently didn't get any sleep last night.

Molly hands me a marker and I uncap it. I snap to draw the attention of my fellow students. Even the Stiff boy behind Al looks up from his paper.

I place the cap on the table, press a finger to my lips, and begin to draw on Al's face.

I give him a mustache, intricately drawn and stupid-looking. Then I move the marker up to his cheek. I write "CRY" on the left cheek, and "BABY" on the right.

Molly snickers and I cap the marker, handing it back to her.

The class collectively giggles. Someone at the front, an Amity, laughs a bit too hard, and our teacher snaps out of her sleep. Immediately I go back to staring at my paper and glare at the class, shaking my head.

She peeks at the clock. "Are any of you done with your p-"

Olivares stops mid-sentence, staring at Al, who is still asleep.

She gets up from her desk and walks over to him, examining his face. She takes it in her hands and looks at all of us.

"Who did this?"

Al stirs.

Most everyone in the class shakes their head or shrugs.

"Well, he didn't come into class like that, did he?"

We all look to each other, and some look to me.

Mrs. Olivares scans the room again, and then her eyes land on the boy behind Al, the Stiff.

"Caleb Prior… who did this? Who wrote these words on Albert's face?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, ma'am. I didn't notice. I was working on my paper."

I wink to him, and he nods.

"It was Peter Hayes."

We all turn heads to the back of the room, where another Stiff sits. I recognize her as Susan, the girl I pushed earlier this morning. Her voice is loud and clear. She stares at me with hurt in her eyes, and I glare and shake my head.

Hatred courses through my veins. I want to kill her.

Olivares searches the room for a Candor, someone who always tells the truth. She nods to Martin Engleson at the front of the room.

"Is this true, Martin? Did Mr. Hayes do this to Albert?"

I stare at him, my hands clenching into fists. He looks conflicted, guilty, as he stares at me. But I don't care. I hate him. And he hates himself.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah. Al was asleep and Molly Atwood gave Peter a marker and he drew on Al's face."

"Thank you," she says, smiling to Martin. Then her gaze turns to me, and she smiles even wider. "May I talk to you outside, Mr. Hayes?"

I get up from my seat as Mrs. Olivares walks in front of me and give Martin the finger. Then I look to Susan and my eyes narrow. I hope the hatred I feel is reflected in them.

I close the door behind us and lean against the locker next to the door.

"Peter, what you did in there wasn't funny."

I smile. "It wasn't? Because according to everyone in there, it was pretty damn hilarious. Even the people who ratted me out thought it was funny."

"Peter, teachers aren't completely ignorant. We know what goes on in the halls, we hear things, we see things. I know what you did to Susan Black this morning."

"Oh, did Martin tell you? Or did Susan? You know, as an Erudite, I wouldn't expect you to be too fond of your Stiff students. Maybe it was Al. Maybe that's why you're defending that weak little-"

"Peter, stop! I'm defending Susan and Martin because they did the right thing, they told the truth. And you consistently do the wrong thing, and you don't seem to care! When are you going to stop this career of bullying? When is this mean streak going to go away? When will you start being more considerate of how others feel?"

I smile again, wide and calm. "I'll start caring about others' feelings when others' feelings start to matter to me. Sixteen years, and I don't care. And you shouldn't, either, Mrs. Olivares, because after tomorrow, you'll never have to see me again."

"I'm calling your parents after class."

"Good. They don't care."

"Oh, I think they will. They care about you, unfortunately. I'm calling Al's, too."

I shrug. "He'll cry to them and they can just cry too and they can all cry as a family."

"Get back inside, Peter."

"Gladly."

I push the door open and give the narcs two identical looks before I sit down. Molly pats my shoulder and I should feel guilty, but I don't. Instead I feel exhilarated.

Being bad feels pretty good.


	2. Test

I decide to skip the meeting with the school counselor - I figure that my parents will already be thoroughly pissed with me, so why waste my time?

I get home at about three and let myself in with my key. I treat myself to cereal, and I realize that that cigarette was my breakfast. Pretty pathetic.

About an hour after I get home, I hear a car pulling up in the driveway. I hear its doors being slammed shut, and then my parents' footsteps. The front door opening.

I don't even get to say "hi" before the shit starts.

"Peter Thomas Hayes," my mother says completely calmly, terrifying.

I close my Faction History textbook and smile at them. "Hello."

I hear my father shutting the door. He walks up and stands behind Mom. He looks down and nods. "Got a call from school today."

I turn my head inquisitively. "Did you?"

"Yeah," says Dad, "we did. Told us that you had got in trouble twice for bullying today. Once for shoving an Abnegation girl into a locker and once for drawing on Albert Marshall's face while he was asleep."

I don't say anything. I just stare at them, a challenge. Brave.

"Is that true, Peter?"

I smile. "Sure as hell is."

The look in my dad's eyes isn't one of disappointment - it's one of pure fury. Idiot.

He takes her coat and moves to set them down.

"Why?" Mom asks. "Why did you do it?"

"Do you know me at all?"

"We do," says Dad, his voice resonating. "We know that you're a good person-"

I snicker and roll my eyes.

"A good person who is above senseless cruelty."

"Well, you're wrong. Because I'm not above anything. It's not about being good or bad. It's not about morals or honesty. And until those people do something good for me, I won't stop doing bad things to them."

I get up from the table and walk over to the stairs.

"Peter," my dad says as I walk past him.

I turn back when I'm a few steps up. "I'm going to bed. I have a lot to think about. The test is tomorrow."

* * *

I sit at one of the long tables in the school cafeteria, across from Drew and Molly. None of us have taken our tests yet.

I'm glad I haven't eaten anything today, because I feel like throwing up.

My parents haven't spoken to me since the confrontation yesterday, in which they finally accepted that I was not going to be their perfect child, I guess. But I know they didn't accept it, because I heard them crying in bed together last night.

Ten kids are called up to be tested at once, two from each faction. I am, coincidentally, called up at the same time as both Al and Susan Black.

I smirk at her as we part ways. Al, whose face is still a bit gray from the permanent marker I used yesterday, keeps his distance. He stares at me when he thinks I'm not looking. I feel like lunging at him as he walks into Room 10 and I walk into Room 9.

A small Abnegation woman stands next to a large computer, programming something, as I walk in. She has red hair tied back into a stern knot.

"I'm Camille. I'll be administering your test today."

"Peter."

She nods. I expect her to tell me I'm an asshole or something, but she doesn't. I've been getting strange looks from Abnegation all day today, even adults like this one, so I'm surprised. Their sense of community must be strong.

I close the door and she looks at me.

"Take a seat here."

She points to a cushioned seat, right under a light.

I put my head on the headrest and avoid staring up at the light.

I try to keep calm.

She hands me a vial of clear liquid and tells me to drink it.

I don't ask questions. I just do it.

And I watch the room disappear.

* * *

When they open, I am somewhere else. The school cafeteria. It's snowy outside, but the room is heated and warm.

"Choose," an ominous voice says from behind me.

I look at the long tables in front of me. On one of them are two substances, each in its own basket - a long knife and a hunk of cheese.

I go for the knife, and immediately the table disappears.

I hear a door creak open behind me. A large dog with a black snout inches toward me. It snarls and growls, but I tell myself not to be afraid. I shake my head.

It barks and snaps as it walks toward me, getting closer and closer. I remember the knife in my hand and I go for it, sinking the knife into the back of the dogs neck in half a second. Blood pours out and the dog disappears, and so do I. But I don't hit the floor immediately; I stay in free fall.

My head hits the ground, and I am no longer in the cafeteria, but a library - a tall one, filled with the smell of books.

There is no one around me - no one except an old lady. She taps a newspaper in front of her and peers over it, staring at me.

The headline reads "Brutal Murderer Finally Apprehended". She taps the picture of the man, who is clean-shaven with shiny hair, bright eyes, and… a long nose with a narrow bridge. I do know him. I just don't know how.

"You know this guy?"

"Never seen him before in my life."

She breathes and looks up at me to get a better look.

"You're lying," she says calmly.

"No, I'm not," I reply. "I wouldn't do that. I don't know him."

She lowers the paper, and her face looks hurt.

"Why are you lying? You could save me!"

"I'm not lying. And I'm not going to save you."

The books suddenly begin to disintegrate, to turn to sand. And soon the paper does, and the old lady, and everything in the library, except me.

Everything around me is sand. The sky is clear, the same color as the water that surrounds me. Out in front of me is a bottle, bobbing in the water.

I pick it up, popping the cork, and shake the note out of it.

_You are never getting off of this island_, it says. _Would you rather have food or a friend?_

I think of food, and I realize how hungry I am. I grow lighter with each second, until I can't feel anything anymore. I sink to the ground, weakened.

I wake up in a large room, an auditorium. A woman stands on the stage. Her face is indistinct, but her voice is loud and clear. And she's calling a name.

I don't know why, but I feel drawn to her. I look into her eyes, and I know something bad will happen. But I have to go up. Something attracts me.

So I get up and walk. Eyes cling to me. I avoid them. My heart pounds more and more each second.

I reach the stage, and she extends her arm to me. I reach for it.

* * *

But it wasn't her hand I grabbed. It is the arm of the seat in the testing room. The machine beeps, whirs, and then calms down.

Camille removes some of the wires from our heads. She smiles down at me.

"Congratulations, Peter," she says. "The test confirmed your aptitude for Dauntless."

I smile, my heart still racing. "How? How did it work?"

She talks as she programs something into the machine.

"The test works by eliminating one faction at a time, in a linear process. The first scenario, with the knife and the cheese, eliminated Amity as you chose the knife. The second ruled out Candor, as your dishonesty would suggest. The island scene ruled out Abnegation, as food would be self-serving. And the last was between Erudite and Dauntless - staying put was the logical thing to do, but it was also the cowardly thing to do, so you went with your internal instinct and conquered your fear, so you've been programmed as Dauntless."

I breathe deeply. "Thank you."

She smiles and opens the door to let me out. "Good luck, Peter, and remember: faction before blood."

Dauntless. Dauntless. Dauntless.

It's my choice now.

I don't know what to feel when I emerge from the testing room. I feel light on my feet, scared, exhilarated, all at the same time. I feel free, even though I am not free yet. Not only am I going to be freed from my faction, I also know where I'm going.

When I get back to the table, Molly and Drew aren't there. Maybe I took awhile. Maybe that's so, because Al is sitting across from me, biting his nails and looking like he may puke.

I scoot a few inches to the right so that I am right in front of him.

"So what were your results, Al?"

Some people have turned to look at us. Some smile, and others look worried.

He looks up at me, his eyes filled with fear. I return the look with a smirk.

He mumbles something. I laugh, and raise my voice, so that everyone in the cafeteria can hear me.

"What was that?"

"We're not supposed to talk about them."

I laugh, drumming my fingers on the table. "Or… you're just afraid."

"What if I'm just following the rules?"

I smile. "Well, then, you're an idiot, too."

I'm cruel. I don't really care.

But soon Molly and Drew leave their testing rooms, and we all exit the school together, not speaking a word to each other.

* * *

"So what were your results, Drew?" I ask once we turn onto our streets.

"Candor."

I stop walking and stare at him. "Candor?"

"Yeah. I chose the knife and I told the truth and I…"

"You're not choosing Candor," I say bluntly. "You're coming with me."

"Which is…?"

"To Dauntless, you idiot. I stabbed the dog like a bitch and I lied to the hag and asked for the food and then I walked up to the lady. And you're coming with me."

"But the tests…"

"The tests tell you which faction you could do well in as a member, not how to pass the initiation. You're friends with me, you've already told too many lies to pass Candor."

He nods, as though confirming that I do have an immense lying problem. I high-five him and then he walks home. I cross the street.

"Nice," a voice says from behind me. A shrill, annoying voice that could only belong to the worst three-doors-down neighbor in the world. Christina.

I pause again, turning. She wears a smug smile and has her arms crossed.

"Impressive, Peter. You bully a little Stiff and then you bully Al and now you bully your friend into ruining his own life because it's what you want."

"Do you ever stop talking?"

Her smile drops, and she shakes her head. "I got Dauntless, too, Peter, because I'm brave. You got Dauntless because you like to hurt people, 'cause you like to see people in pain. You didn't stab the dog to stand up to it, you stabbed it to see it bleed. What kind of twisted pleasure does that sort of thing give you? God, I could just start writhing around on the floor and moaning in agony and you'd jizz your slacks, wouldn't you?"

I let out a laugh. "Maybe."

She walks toward me. I wish I had a knife. I have matches in my backpack. But a gun would be ideal, and we don't have those in Candor.

"But just so you know, Peter," she hisses, "one day… you're going to be the one sprawled out in pain, and we're all going to be laughing. Not the other way around."

"Is that what you tell yourself at night?"

"Always."

And then she turns away and walks home, and I do the same.

* * *

I lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. I am not a back sleeper, but I can think like this, and I have a lot to think about.

I do like to hurt people. It's twisted, yeah, but sometimes just seeing the misery in someone's eyes can make my day, and knowing I've done that makes me feel euphoric. And that kind of thing wouldn't be shunned in Dauntless. It would be celebrated, even. A faction of warriors.

I pretend to be asleep as a door opens and my mother walks in. Her red hair is visible through the lighting of the hallway. She sits beside me on the bed and strokes my hair, something I can't stand but must stand.

She sighs heavily. "Peter…"

I pretend to stir, making a little noise to let her know that I'm listening, because I'm genuinely interested.

"Peter, I just want you to know that no matter your choice, we still love you. I love you, your sister loves you, and your father loves you, even if he has a hard time expressing it. Good night."

She leans in and kisses my forehead.

I wait until she's out of the room before I roll my eyes.

Just the word "love" makes my stomach twist.

Let alone the concept.


	3. Choice

**A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter than the others, but please, enjoy it as you can. Reviews are greatly appreciated! Have a wonderful day!**

The next morning, I awake to the sun shining in my face, streaming in through my bedroom window and illuminating the whole room, drenching it with golden light. I would find it beautiful if I were not me.

I sit up, rubbing my sleep-filled eyes. Today is my last day here. I've waited sixteen long years for this.

I make my bed, which is black with white sheets, and arrange my pillows neatly. This in itself is an ambiguous action - even if I were to stay in Candor, I would still never sleep in this bed again. But it is certainly a betrayal of myself. I never, ever make my bed.

There is no school today, thankfully. I will not have to see Mrs. Olivares again, after she refused to look me in the eye all hour yesterday. I will not have to see her ever again, I realize, and the thought makes me giddy.

I stare in the mirror for awhile. I'm good-looking, and charming, and noticeable. But am I making the right decision?

I don't think it's about your personality in itself. I think the choice is about what you blame for the faults of human nature over history - Stiffs blame selfishness, Amity blames aggressiveness, Candor blames dishonesty, Dauntless blames cowardice, and Erudite blame ignorance.

I don't blame selfishness.

I am too aggressive to blame that quality.

It would be a lie to blame dishonesty.

Ignorance is not a vice. Ignorance is temporary.

But I do blame cowardice. I do.

I make my way downstairs without being called.

My mother stands at the foot of the stairs, smiling. I return it. She knows that I won't choose Candor. But it's not my fault; it's hers. She reached for me too late, and now I'm leaving her grasp once and for all.

She touches my shoulder, and I move my eyes from her, searching for my father. I notice a pack of cigarettes on the table. I grab them and place them in my pants pocket. They won't get lost there.

"The Ceremony isn't for two hours," she says gently. "Your father and I are going out for a bit, so you can have some time to yourself."

I smile and lean down to kiss her cheek. She hugs me tightly - an ordeal - and then leaves.

I light a cigarette and sit at the counter. I look down at the ashtray right in front of me. It is a round, more like a bowl. It's made of clear glass, so it looks white, and painted in the center is the insignia of our faction; the unbalanced scales. The truth against lies.

It's not official; it was made by a child in some arts and crafts class.

I turn the ashtray over. In permanent marker is "Peter H., 10/4/303 PPW".

A pang of guilt hits my chest. I made it. I didn't remember.

I don't know how to feel about that. Am I really that bad? Is my heart so murky that I don't remember the nice things I did for people?

Screw this whole faction. I hate all of it, I do. I hate the lies hidden behind the premise of brutal honesty; the poor excuses for cruelty. That's not honest. That's just stupid.

I hate that I spent sixteen years trying to live up to something that's impossible. Dishonesty isn't temporary, it's permanent and natural. Humans are bad, I know that. We're selfish and weak and make bad decisions. But we're good at lying. We can't change that.

My eyes flit around the kitchen. In the cupboard under the stairs, my dad keeps tools. There must be something blunt in there.

I put out the cigarette and search the cupboard for a hammer.

This is my last act as a dependent of Candor - it should be defiant, loud, and noticeable. It should be honest, real.

Glass is transparent like our faction, but it's still breakable.

I take the silver hammer and smash the tray in one swift motion.

It feels good. It helps me breathe better, helps me calm down. The sound of it shattering is like music to my ears. I feel free.

I climb the stairs with the hammer. I feel like a murderer, which I honestly don't have a problem with. I'm smiling when I open the door to my bedroom.

My eyes land on the picture on the windowsill. I lay it down gently on the bed and take a last look at it. I look so innocent. I look like I belong. It's the only time I ever did.

The shards fly all over the room. One lands in my hand, and it hurts, but I barely twitch. I just pick it out and smile. I'll have an existing zipper to cut from when I choose today.

I must look crazy, I realize. I pull my hand up to my mouth and suck out the blood, which is warm and tastes like copper.

But my business isn't done. I move more of the shards out of the way, and reach for the picture. I'm in the bottom right, my sister next to me, our parents behind us.

I tear myself out with my hands, placing little boy me away from the paper picture. I take another shard and scratch up my family. This is my last stand.

And I feel great about it.

* * *

I am swatting my mother's hands away as she tries to run her fingers through my hair, trying to fix it. I hate sitting in the backseat of the car; it makes me feel like a child, just like I feel now.

The city's commercial center, the Hub, pops up into the clouds, and becomes more visible as I step out of the car, rising to my full height. My mother kisses my cheek and walks off with my dad, who just nods. I haven't spoken to him since I got yelled at a few days ago, and I never will.

Molly waves to me and I pad over to her, wearing a smirk. A crowd of Amity walk past me.

"We're going to Dauntless," I tell her plainly. They always read the names in reverse-alphabetical order of last name, and since my last name is 'Hayes' and Molly's is 'Atwood', I will choose before her.

"Yep," she says, nodding. "Just like the test said."

I put a hand on her back, steering her to the right, an act of secrecy. "You know Drew got Candor, right?"

She looks up at me, her brown eyes muddled with confusion. "He's not staying, is he?"

I shake my head. "No. I gave him a talk."

"Good. Good."

A crowd of Stiffs pass us, and when I see Susan, I give her a stony glare. They're taking the stairs up to the high floor where the Choosing Ceremony is. Of course.

I head up with Molly, my family, and some more Candor in the elevator. It's much quicker than twenty flights of stairs, and should get the families some decent seats.

The room is arranged in three circles. On the edges of one are the sixteen-year-olds of every faction. We are arranged by last name, to make placing more easier. I will go after an Amity called Lucy Heap and before an Erudite, John Hadley.

The third circle contains five large bowls. Each has a substance that represents each faction: stones for Abnegation, soil for Amity, water for Erudite, lit coals for Dauntless, and glass for Candor.

Glass. I smirk. It's transparent, and breakable, just like the truth. Just like I proved today.

The Stiff representative, Marcus Eaton, is charged with leading the Ceremony this year. He's a tall, aging man who has recently been accused of sheltering food and abusing his child.

When my name is called, I will walk to the bowl circle. He'll hand me a knife, and I'll press it into the cut I already have, and I will extend my hand into the bowl of fire. He'll say something like "Peter Hayes - Dauntless", and that section of the room will cheer and whoop, and my parents will probably cry.

Blood on the coals. Faction before blood, after all. Right?

Marcus Eaton explains the purpose of the faction system, of each faction.

"...They divided into factions that sought to eradicate those qualities they believed responsible for the world's disarray."

I look around the room, wondering how a belief as fundamental as that could manifest itself in ways down to our very mannerisms.

"Those who blamed aggression formed Amity."

They are the farming faction, all dressed comfortably in red and yellow. They are kind - too kind. That lifestyle seems easy, peaceful. But it is not an option for me; it is not me. And, as my parents have long reminded me, it is not honest.

"Those who blamed ignorance became the Erudite."

I have never liked the Erudite, but suddenly I wonder if I could do well there. I'm not unintelligent; most of my problems in school were behavioral. And I'm grounded, logical, cold.

"Those who blamed duplicity created Candor."

I look to the table where my parents sit. They eye me and my mother smiles. I don't blame duplicity. How could I blame something that comes as second nature to me?

"Those who blamed selfishness made Abnegation."

The Stiffs don't make any indication toward each other. Quiet, placid, unassuming. No. Subdued.

"And those who blamed cowardice were the Dauntless."

All around me, the Dauntless cheer and whoop. I gravitate toward them, as though they are pulling me in. I belong there, I do.

Eaton explains each of the factions' roles within the society. Abnegation are public servants, the city's leaders. Lawyers like my parents are from Candor, putting honesty and order before all else. Erudite are the teachers and researchers, always seeking knowledge. Amity are doctors, caregivers, farmers. And Dauntless are protectors. They're our warriors, our police.

His words compel me, pulling me in. "In our factions, we find meaning, we find purpose, we find life. Apart from them, we would not survive."

The factionless, he's referring to.

We applaud him.

In a linear fashion, each sixteen-year-old steps out of line and decides the rest of their life.

Some stumble. Some transfer, spilling their blood into the bowl of a faction from which they did not come. But most stay in their faction of origin.

Cowards.

As Eaton goes down the line, from "Ms" to the few "Is", I begin to feel nervous. Anxiety is not something I feel frequently, but I feel a deep-seated fear rise up inside me as he nears my name. My heart is thumping and my palms are sweaty by the time he calls-

"Peter Hayes."

I take a deep breath and step out of the line. I remember my aptitude test. I remember all of the suppression I underwent during my childhood.

All eyes are on me as I walk to the bowl. My heart pounds. My stomach feels like it's risen to my chest. It's just a choice, Peter.

But not all choices are weighed equally.

I breathe deeply again, get my breaths to steady. Just a choice, I tell myself.

Eaton hands me the knife. I stare into his face. His eyes are strange, a dark blue color.

I press the knife into the wounded hand and stare from bowl to bowl.

I picture myself, in an instant, living out my life in each faction.

A life of order in Candor. A life of happiness in Amity. A life of giving in Abnegation. A life of knowledge in Erudite. But I see a life worth living in only Dauntless.

My hand shifts forward, and the flames rise higher, my blood sizzling on the coals.

"-Dauntless."


End file.
